When the Saints bm-2

by Dave Duncan

  “Our Lady be with you, Wolfcub.”

  Anton said, “Amen!”

  “And all the saints,” Vlad rumbled. “I’d come with you if I could, Cub, but thank sweet Jesus I can’t.”

  That was it, then. Time to go.

  Wulf went back to Long Valley.

  ***

  He was very nearly blown clean off the wagon by the storm. He threw himself flat on the snowy surface and grabbed at a rope, but it was too tightly bound to give him a good grip. He found another he could hold on to, then took stock of his surroundings.

  About three feet in front of his head, the carter and a pikeman were huddled together on the bench, swathed in their cloaks in an effort to keep the blizzard from running down their necks. So far they must be unaware of their passenger. The wagon was not moving, and the horses were understandably fretting, stamping hooves and tossing heads. Another wagon directly ahead was similarly stalled. The snow was too dense for Wulf to see much farther, but he could hear a lot of angry shouting as too much army tried to move along too little road.

  A row of helmets on his right, almost level with him, was close enough to touch. Fortunately, the men-at-arms wearing them all had their backs to him, cowering away from the wind fr ri in the lee of the wagon. They, too, were stamping and grumbling. Beyond them was a cliff of rock and scrub, not quite a wall, but too steep to walk up.

  The escort on his left should have been facing in his direction and ramming pikes into him already, but another red-painted wagon had pulled level and extremely close, so the guards had doubled up on the far side of it. Apparently none of them had noticed him-yet.

  He rolled over and slid off his perch, down between the two wagons, crouching to make himself inconspicuous. He was already soaked and shivering, and he had banged a knee on the side of the first wagon. At the moment he was safe, but the gap was so narrow that if either wagon started to move, he would be crushed by its rear wheel. There was a fourth wagon right behind these two, and its driver might see him at any moment.

  Out came the dagger, and he set to work on the covering of the wagon he had just left, attacking the slope from the top of the upper layer of barrels down to the sides of the lower layer. There must be a hollow under there which he could put to good use. Despite his frantic efforts, the leather was hard as iron and put up a stiff resistance, but his luck was holding so far. Indeed, it was going at full gallop, because he was in the middle of at least four powder wagons. If he could set one ablaze, there was a good chance of the fire spreading to others, seriously depleting the Wends’ supply.

  But the leather was going to defeat him. His dagger seemed to be losing its edge. Oh, of course! The covering had been blessed. So it could be cursed. Yield! You are as soft as wet paper. Rip! There was a second cover underneath the first, so he cursed that also. It gave way, and he opened a rent down to the lower layer of barrels. A quick sideways slash opened a gap wide enough to put the bed-warmer pan through.

  ***

  His brothers released a yelp of joy when he reappeared. He grabbed up the pan and went back to his place between the wagons.

  ***

  The adjacent wagon had started to move. Its rear wheel was about to grind him against the front wheel of the wagon he was attacking, like grain in a mill. The driver waiting on the fourth wagon, the one behind, was watching its progress and saw him.

  He roared in a voice like a July thunderstorm. “You! Who’re you? Guards, guards! What’s that man doing?”

  For a moment, Wulf nearly fled in sheer panic. More men saw him and bellowed in fury. Orders were shouted. Two pikes narrowly missed his head and buried themselves in the covering he had cursed. Fortunately, men started coming over the wagons at him from both sides. For a moment they needed both hands for climbing and their comrades could not use their pikes.

  With seconds to spare before he was crushed, Wulf thrust the bed warmer into the gap he had made, and gave it a half-turn to tip the coals out on the lid of the barrid ds el below. Burn hot, my babies!

  Then he went back to Castle Gallant.

  ***

  Three men-all of them bigger than he-mobbed him, hugging him, thumping his back. He struggled free angrily, aware that he was shaking as if he had tertian fever.

  “You did it, Cub?” Vlad demanded.

  “I have no idea. Give me a drink. Let me sit down. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know if I did it-I mean, whether it worked.” Suddenly nauseous, he flopped onto a chair, the chair in which Marek had died. He had been seen. He had broken the first commandment yet again, and he could no longer plead ignorance. He should not have tried it. Justina was going to rip him to strips, and he was fairly sure now that her help and approval were vital to any faint hope he might have of escaping the Church’s vengeance for the death of Brother Azuolas.

  “What exactly did you do?” Otto asked. “Tell us, dammit!”

  Wulf told them, stuttering as reaction dug in like icicles. He had not slept for so long it felt like months. Tomorrow he would be needed again. He must report back to Justina, and he must sleep.

  “Go and change,” Otto said. “You’re soaked!”

  “If it blew up, would we have heard it?” Anton asked Vlad.

  The big man shook his head. “In this snow? Other side of a mountain? No, but hot coals and powder don’t mix, so I’m sure he destroyed one wagon. One won’t save us. Nobody’s going to stay around and put the fire out, though, so the other wagons may go up as well. Very likely, in fact. And if they all go, then Wartislaw will almost certainly not have the means to breach our defenses. He still outnumbers us hugely, but the boy may have won us enough time for the king’s men to arrive. That’s as much as-”

  The castle trembled as if kicked by a giant. Wine bottles rattled on the table, the candlesticks danced on the mantel, and hot embers collapsed on the hearth.

  “Satan’s balls!” Anton yelled. “What was that?”

  Vlad gave a great roar and charged the nearest window like a mad bull. He flung the casement open, admitting a gale and filling the room with flying snowflakes. It was still daylight out there, but it was barely possible to see across the bailey.

  “What in the pit are you doing?” Anton roared.

  His brother turned to show a ragged row of big white teeth in his forest of beard. “Waiting for the thunder. It’s like mining under a castle wall. You feel the. Y sti thump before you hear the-”

  A long rolling rumble echoed off the mountains, and re-echoed faintly from farther away.

  “You ever heard thunder in a snowstorm?” Vlad shouted, waving his fists in the air.

  Otto said, “Yes, but it’s very-” He was drowned out.

  “You did it, Wolfcub, you did it! I was wrong.”

  Wulf felt a jolt of triumph and leapt to his feet, fatigue forgotten. “One wagon or all of them?”

  “Every last one of them, surely!” Vlad slammed the casement.

  “Bravo!” Otto clapped Wulf on the back hard enough to jar his teeth, then hugged him.

  Anton screamed in joy and waved his fists in the air.

  “Devil take ’em!” Vlad bellowed. “Half the shitty Wend army must be plastered all over the forest! What are we waiting for? To arms!” He charged to the door, wrestled briefly with the latch, and then vanished out into the corridor, still bellowing.

  Otto said, “Heavenly Father, we humbly thank you for this great mercy that you have…” He concluded with a prayer for the souls of the dead. Three brothers said amen and made the sign of the cross.

  Wulf had not broken the first commandment after all, because all the workaday witnesses must be dead. But his jubilation soon lost out to shame. And fear too. What had he done? Shaken the mountains? How many dead?

  “You lost your dagger,” Otto said. “Take this one, you’ve earned it.” He held out his own, an heirloom with an amber handle in the shape of a man’s forearm with the fist in a clenched gauntlet making the pommel.

  Wulf recoiled. “No, no! I can�
�t wear that.”

  “You can and you will,” his brother said firmly. “It doesn’t belong to the reigning baron. The fifth baron had it made for his youngest son. For two hundred years it has been worn by the Magnus most worthy. I didn’t earn it, I just inherited it. I brought it along this time because I was planning to give it to Anton if he could hold on to his earldom. But by God, you’re the hero now! Wear it till you die. Tell your sons to send it back to Dobkov.”

  “But-”

  “Take it!” Otto roared.

  Reluctantly Wulf obeyed and stared in disbelief at the treasured Magnus Dagger. As a small child he had dreamed of wearing it. He hadn’t been very old when hery y W realized how slim his chances were, with four brothers ahead of him. “This should be a reward for prowess at arms, not witchcraft.”

  “It’s a reward for courage. Hang it on your belt or stick it in my chest. That’s the only way I’ll take it back.”

  “I agree,” Anton said thinly.

  In disbelief, Wulf hung the heirloom at his right thigh. Today, what was left of it, he would wear the Magnus Dagger. Tomorrow he would give it back to Otto to keep safe for him. Otherwise the Inquisition would steal it.

  “Come, Count,” Otto said. “Vlad is right. We must strike while we can. Let’s go throw the fiendish bombard into the river.” He strode out the door.

  Wulf shivered. “I need dry clothes first.”

  “Wait!” Anton shut the door and blocked it, arms defiantly folded. “Wulf, you have done everything we could have hoped for. You have defeated the Wends and saved Castle Gallant and we are all very grateful, but the Inquisition will soon come looking for you. You said so yourself. I realize that you got into the trouble you are in now by helping me, and I promised you any reward I could give you. Name it, take it, and then go. You must flee.”

  Wulf looked up at his brother and saw a lot more jealousy than gratitude. He felt his temper twitch again. He shivered again as the cold bit deeper. “Pretty speech! The trouble is, the only reward I want, you cannot give me. And fleeing is no answer. Let’s see how things are back in Dobkov… Branka is currently reading a bedtime story to our nephews. Old Father Czcibor is teaching a confirmation class. Understand? I can see them and I could go to them. The same applies to the Inquisition’s Speakers. I can’t hide from them, no matter where I go.”

  “But you don’t need to draw their attention to the rest of us!”

  Fury! “Oh, listen, you long streak of stupidity. The Scarlet Spider fooled you, haven’t you seen that yet? When Zdenek offered to exalt you from a nothing to a lord of the northern marches, he knew that you couldn’t claim the reward without using Satanism. He knew the Magnuses produced both swordsmen and sorcerers. You knew that too, and knew you could twist my arm until I agreed to help, so you accepted. When you twisted, I yielded. I was just as guilty and just as deceived.”

  Anton unfolded his arms, but one hand sought out his sword hilt and the other went to steady his scabbard. He was probably too mad to listen to reason. “Deceived how?”

  “Because if we’ve won the war, we’ve won it for that old sinner, not for us. Maybe I’ ve destroyed Wartislaw’s powder and Vlad and Otto can do the rest. But the way the Church sees it, I begged help from Satan and you accepted it, too. We are up to our necks in Satanism, all of us. The cardinal won’t lift a finger to save inglp us, not a pinkie! Once he’s sure that Castle Gallant is safe, he’ll throw the Magnuses to the dogs and put some dandy courtier in your place. We’re all doomed. Understand? Now get out of my way.”

  Anton’s face was fiery, and for a moment Wulf thought he was actually going to draw. Glaring, he stepped aside, and Wulf left.

  CHAPTER 15

  Wartislaw of Griffin had not won his duchy by being nice to anyone, even his nominal overlord, the Holy Roman Emperor. His entire court was terrified of him. So were his generals, because he liked to boast that none of them ever lost more than one battle. But he had rarely been in such a rage as he was now.

  Even his falcons feared him, because they were prevented by their jessing oaths from defending themselves from his rages. He had been known to withhold their powers for weeks on end, and even have them beaten when they especially displeased him. He flew three falcons, who had speeded his climb to power up a ladder of mysterious deaths.

  At present, two of them were escorting the Dragon as it was laboriously hauled through this hellhole of a gorge in this hell-sent blizzard. One was riding on the wagon, supposedly keeping watch for enemy Speakers, although at the moment nobody could see anything in this Satanic blizzard. A second was busily blessing the gravel of the road, the fords and bridges, and even strengthening the team of sixteen oxen that hauled the monster.

  The third Speaker was supposedly supervising and enabling the digging of the emplacement at the point where the road emerged from the gorge and turned the corner. There the gun would have a clear shot at the gates of Castle Gallant, which would begin a historic first storming of that castle. What not one of the damned-for-eternity military idiots had thought to tell His Grace was that the road there was carved out of living rock. Worse, they had not considered the narrowness of the ledge between cliff-up and cliff-down. Now the sappers had hacked out a trench about three feet wide and two feet deep-not yet deep enough for the bombard, but wide enough to block passage of any vehicle larger than a cart. How did they think the gunners were going to get the Dragon into that hole? The dray was too wide to pull up alongside it. Did they imagine a team of sixteen oxen could back up? And if it could, that would leave the bombard pointing the wrong way!

  Even in the blinding snow, Wartislaw himself saw the problem at a glance. His roar of fury caused the Speaker to vanish, and half his escort moved off, into the fog. The duke wheeled his horse, drew his sword, and prepared to behead the captain in charge. The man screamed in terror, backed away too far, and vanished over the edge of the cliff. Good riddance. Wartislaw ordered one of his mounted escort to remain and take charge-and finish the excavation by morning, or else. Then he bellowed for the rest to follow him, and spurred his horse back into the gorge.

  By the time he reached Thunder Falls, he had still not solved the emplacement puzzle. The answer would probably involve ropes, which he had, and dozens of pulleys, which he did not. His falcons could fetch them from Pomerania, but it might take weeks to find enough.

  Perdition!

  He had to slow his horse to a walk as the escort attempted to clear a way for him along the mass confusion of the trail, carts bringing forward tools, weapons, and ammunition, and men-at-arms standing by to repel any sortie from Gallant. There just was not enough room here to fight a war! Even the rumble of the falls could not drown out the cursing and bellowing of orders, clumping hooves, squealing axles, lowing oxen, clattering shingles. The sides of the gorge varied from sheer rock to almost-sheer moss and scrub. Even above the falls, where the canyon became slightly wider, the extra space was taken up by rocks and tree stumps.

  And out of the gloom and the swirling snow emerged an incompetence worse than any yet. He had left strict orders that his pavilion was to be situated as close to the gun battery as possible, so that he could watch the bombardment when it began. But the fools were assembling it on a shingle bank only a third of the size it needed, so half of it would be in the river, and the rest strung through the boulders like a ribbon of colored silk.

  “Idiots!” he roared. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  An elderly servant-Wartislaw never bothered to remember menials’ names-looked up at him in terror. “Erecting your tent, Your Grace. You told-”

  Wartislaw slashed him across the face with his quirt. “Pig-brained nincompoop! I’ll have you all flogged. Where is-”

  Huh? Horses staggered, then reared in terror, even his own courser, until he hauled on the reins and beat it into submission. Several men had fallen over, and were scrambling to their feet again. Rocks clattered down the hillside.

  “What was that?” he muttere
d, but nobody answered.

  Thunder rolled and echoed. All heads had turned to stare back along the trail, the way they had come. Not thunder; a mine! He had never heard one that big, but the delay between shock and sound meant that it had been at least a mile away. So it must have originated within his baggage train. The train had still been working its way forward while the men were setting up camp. Had one of those cretinous wagoners driven too close to a campfire? Or was this more Jorgarian Satanism like that suspiciously defective ladder this morning? If a powder wagon had exploded in the middle of the column, Wartislaw might have to add two or three hundred casualties to the toll from thi s morning’s fiasco.

  He spurred forward again, yelling for men to get out of his way. He must inspect the damage and get the bodies out of sight as soon as possible, or those superstitious churls…

  And what was that? The roar of the falls was growing louder. Except that the sound was not coming from behind him, where the falls were. In front of him? Above him?

  And then he was flying, horse and all.

  CHAPTER 16

  Vlad ran down the stairs to the armory, roaring orders to anyone he met on the way. He had divided Anton’s forces into three “battles,” naming them after city churches. Currently St. Andrej’s had the watch, St. Petr’s was on standby, and St. Sebastijan’s was off duty. By the time he reached the armory, the tocsin was clanging and St. Petr’s men were already running in to report for duty.

  Dali Notivova arrived at his heels, bare to the waist, with shaving oil on one side of his face and two days’ beard on the other.

  “Cute whiskers,” Vlad said. “Latest Italian style?” He peered around and located Sir Teodor looking for orders. He was a local rancher, well into his forties and too old for real roughhousing, but he’d fought for the Hungarians against the Turks and could handle men. Vlad had made him captain of St. Petr’s Battle.